.H24 S3 
1900 




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SCENES ABROAD 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 



BY 



WILLIAM BURT HARLOW, Ph, D., 

AUTHOR OF 

Songs of Syracuse, Columbia Redeemed, etc. 



PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR 

SOMERS, CONN. 

1900 



r2 \n^i^ 

i%0 



SPRINGFIELD, MASS., 

PRESS OF C. R. KAPLINGER 
1900 




DEDICA TION. 

CT-'O one but lately come into my life 

Making it szvect though I with grief 
had striven ; 
With faith in me that has new courage 

given ; 
My patient^ grntle and devoted zvi/e. 



PREFACE. 

MOST of the following poems have ap- 
peared in the *'N. Y. Home Journal," 
the '* Springfield Republican," the '* Christian 
Register," the "Yorkshire Weekly Post," 
(Eng.), "Boston Transcript," Carter's 
Monthly," La Porte Chronicle" and "Hart- 
ford Times." Others, the fugitive lines of the 
past ten years, are now for the first time 
gathered with the hope that they may be as 
kindly received as a former collection. 

The Author. 



The Voyao-e. 



THE VOYAGE. 

HERE we are off and away, 
Down through the wonderful bay I 
Think of the ones who must stay 
How they waved us adieux from the pier, 
And how nobly they gave us good cheer. 
How they smiled as they choked back the tear 
That made the eye beam with a light 
Of sorrow in joy as from sight 
On we passed to the wierd, mystic deep 
That so long us, their loved ones must keep. 

Look up through the river and see 
How thick grow the masts on its sides 
As our vessel still on, onward glides ; 
The black hulks of steamships we flee 
Sea-monsters with deep-meaning eyes 
Seeming proof 'gainst a world of surprise : 
For what storms of the past have they braved ! 
How many dear lives they have saved I 
Mysterious nights on the sea ; 
They have loved them and faced them with 
glee ! 



8 The Voyage, 

How your heart and mine throbs and thrills ! 

How with love of our countr}^ it fills, 

When gliding so near 

That small island dear 

Where raised high above us doth stand, 

With life's shining torch in her hand, 

Majestic our Liberty 

Blessing her sons as they sail 

While we watch till the strained sight must 
fail 

As we leave her, the loved one 

And think of our home 

And the welcome to come. 

When wearied with wandering we shall re- 
turn ; 

While Absence has taught us how much we 
can yearn 

For the home of our freedom and youth : 

Oh ! have faith in its honor and truth. 

Now we think of it as of the dead, 
No more of the harms that are said 
To have worked like a worm at the core, 
'Tis our country when worlds we explore. 
'Tis our country to love and defend. 
And our home let it be at our end. 



The Voyage. 9 

Speed along ! speed away ! 

Past the ridge by the bay 

Past the forts o'er the Narrows that watch, 

While surges the tide 

From far waters wide 

And tosses, and tosses those skiffs moored 

beside 
That long fishing pier 
Whence some start in fear 
Some in joy at the peril of such a mad ride 
To the rocks and the isle and the crumbling 

walls, 
Where through the rent roof-tops the glad 

sunlight falls. 
And calls up the grass and the flowers. 

Soon, soon fades the land from our sight ! 

With wings eager sweep 

They swerve o'er the deep, 

Those long-winged 

Those strong-winged 

Those soft grey-winged gulls ! 

They beckon us on in their flight 

And tell us that winds, waves are right 

On their home and our home, the sea. 

That 'tis good, oh, so good to be free. 



lo The Voyage. 

To be moving and drinking delight 

From the sky and the wave«;, day and night. 



Farewell, farewell our own dear native land ! 
First parting comes from thy familiar strand : 

So sweet, so strange, the untried world be- 
fore. 
We half forget as thou dost close the door, 

That aliens we shall come again to thee 
Twice traversing with printless feet the sea. 

Like isles Elysian that in cloudland fade 

We see thee perfect as fair dreams are made. 

Sad strife and folly, poverty and sin 
At this rapt moment never enter in. 

Thy acres feed all men by hunger driven ; 
The oppressed of every land in thee find 
heaven. 

The fathers thou hast chosen rule with love 
And look for guidance to their God above. 



The Voyage, ii 

So must we see thee as from thee we part, 
As we would have thee, howsoe'er thou art, 

A sunht mist steals over Sandy Hook ; 

'Tis twilight of the day 

That ne'er can fade away 

While over memory's leaves we fondly look. 



Land out of sight ! 
Never before have you known 
Through all life's 3^ears that have flown 
Such a delight, 
Measureless quite. 

Delight in the novelty, knowing full well 
Ten days must speed by 'mid the broad bil- 
lows' swell 
Where mingle the sea and the sky 
And no form of the land cometh nigh ; 
Then to dream of the night wonders while 
Thought measures the depth of a mile 
And pictures the wide, sunless floor 
Oh so far 'neath the surge and the roar, 
While our great sea-bird rests 
With the rime on lier breasts, 



12 The Voyage. 

Or rests not, but plunges, careens — safely 

floats 
As she seems to take breath 
Ere again facing death ! 

When the creaking of masts shall be heard, 
And the roar of the gale through reefed sail, 
While faint o'er the blast comes the word 
'' All's well ! " in a long plaintive wail. 

Oh those wonderful storms on the deep. 
When none but a dead soul could sleep ! 
While we sit 'neath the roof at the stern 
See those waves that we leave gleam and 

burn, 
With that light not of earth, 
For the sea gave it birth 

And our souls v/ith the wave surge and yearn, 
To the sky and the unknown we turn. 

High ! high we are borne. 

We must reach it at last : 

Yes : wrested and torn 

Shall the secret be cast 

Down to mortals as once was Promethean fire 

E'en if soul in the heaven-born effort expire 



The Voyage, 13 

We care not ; we've grasped at the sky : 
God chains not the man to the rock 
When He gives him the wings that must fly. 
We would face every .wave, bear the shock 
For the blessing of thoughts that are high. 

Woe ! woe I we descend ! 

Will the fall never end? 

Before us the wall of the wave : 

Oh God, wouldst Thou shovv^ us the grave 

As the end of our ecstacy's flight ; 

The grave, and the darkness of night? 

While ansv/ers the pitiless sea 
As it breaks v/ith a crn.-^h on our lee : 
" Let mortal dare not in his pride, 
Though high on my weaves he may ride, 
Think that I v/ho am bound shall betray 
That secret hid ere the first day 
When I, sprung from Chaos gave birth 
Unwilling to thy parent earth ! " 

But we rise, rise again, and the soul 
Baffled still yet is stronger for aye 



14 The Voyage. 

That it grasped at, with fingers of clay, 
The robe of the infinite whole. 



What days of sweet converse we hold ! 
How the hearts that the years and the world 
Have sealed with reserve and with pride 
Find their portals are opening wide ! 
The stern eye, the lip that is curled, 
Learn to smile ; and as flowers unfold, 

So our best thoughts unfold on the deep 
And all the day long, watch we keep 
On the decks where the sunlight falls warm, 
When spent are the night and the storm. 

The artist is wrapped in his dreams 

Of the beauteous forms he will see. 

And sitting alone his eye beams 

At the thouorht of what David must be 

As he stands 'neath that high vaulted roof, 

In far-away Florence, with woof 

Of the sunbeams, and majesty clad 

And voluptuous beauty enough 

To make the beholder's eye glad. 

While one scarcely mistrusts wlw he loves 



The Voyage. 15 

But thinks his emotions all pure ; 
Good or bad the delight must endure. 

Then a dream of Murillo's soft hues 
That rise from warm clouds and enfold 
The realms of the sk}^ with pure gold : 
The mother with heavenly eyes, 
The child and the angels that sing 
Till vou hear them with raptures untold, 
And the light in the frame glows and glows, 
Till your life like a golden stream flows 
And the vision has borne you to heaven. 

Or the dreamer is sitting alone 
With the comfort of being unknown 
In the hoary old church by the Scheldt 
With the pain countless souls here have felt 
For the Christ, through the centuries slain. 
Can the painter who wrought this complain 
If some should think less of the pain 
And more of the fine forms he drew ; 
Of the colors superb that none knew 
But he, Antwerp's master, to paint? 

Van Dyke's bloodless Christs I abhor — 
And what were such forms pictured for? 



1 6 Afiicrican Girls on the Atlantic. 

'Twas the worship of sorrow, of woe, 
The love of our Christ thus to show ; 
This tragedy dear to the past 
Shall we cling to it e'en to the last? 



AMERICAN GIRLS ON THE AT- 
LANTIC. 

OH ! Paris of course will be best — 
Such ga}^ rides through the ** Bois de 
Bologne " 
With evenings in " Champs Elysees !" 
Will it do, w^e're so far, far away. 
To be gay as in Paris they're gay? 
Is the '^Jardin Mabille " very low? 
I've heard that the ministers go 
When they're sure it will never be known. 

"There's that love of an Opera House ! 

I hope they'll have '* Faust" when we're 

there — 
Who'll be escort? I really don't care. 
I'm sure that it won't hurt a mouse. 



American Girls on the Atlantic 17 

As papa calls me, if I go 

With some other nice girl to a show 

In one of those neat little cabs. 

I've studied '* Cassell " and I know 

How to pay with a j)our hoire thrown in, 

When cabby comes down for his tin." 

Said another : "I long for Versailles ; 
Can we dance on that polished oak floor 
Of the prettiest room in the world ? 
I wonder if Louis once whirled 
In the mazy with old Pompadour ; 
Anyway, Jo and I mean to try." 

*' I've been reading of poor Antoinette, 
And her dear little house in the wood. 
I do wish she hadn't been good. 
No doubt she'd have been living yet 
And it's oh, such a good thing to live, 
Anyway at such times as you're bound 
For Europe, when all that's around 
Seems no end of pleasure to give." 

"Dear, dear!" said her friend, "don't you 

know 
Antoinette would have died long ago 



i8 American Girls on the Atlantic. 



Of old age, or a dropsy or cough 

If the French hadn't cut her head off?' 



" To be sure, how old would she have been? 

Carlyle wrote that queer ' Ninety-Three,' 

And she died somewhere then, let me see — 

She'd be over a hundred years old ! 

Do you think that she liked Louis' locks? 

I don't mean the curls on his wig, 

But the brass locks that look good as gold 

That he made for her doors and work-box ; 

He wasn't the king to feel big." 

One spectacled girl said she thought 

That the " Louvre" would take most of her 

time. 
*' Oh the Louvre !" echoed they, ** to be sure. 
What was it he said we must see? 
The ' Salon Carre,' gorgeous wall. 
Where you stretch back 3^our neck till it 

breaks 
For fear that you won't see it all — 
And then lots of study it takes, 
And you don't see what half of it means." 



American Girls on the Atlantic. 19 

" The ' Raft of Medusa,' I know 
We had her at school in our teens, 
But what is she doing up there ? 
I thought she had snakes in her hair. 
The copies I've seen show a boat 
All to pieces and hardly afloat." 

'' Then we must see Venus, she's grand, 
Though she hasn't the sign of a hand, 
But her feet are so large they make up, 
And her hair has the loveliest wave ! 
I drew her at school, won a cup — 
Sterling silver, outside, for a prize. 
They said 'twas all good but the eyes — 
But my crayons won't always behave." 

"Well, /like Diana the best, 
Her hair is much prettier dressed 
And she reaches so charmingly 'round 
To pick out a quiver, no, dart. 
That it really goes quite to my heart. 
But hers were those arrows that wound : 
Girls may shoot them now, I declare 
I'd rather put mine in my hair." 



20 American Girls on the Atlantic. 

"There's the * Morgue ;' do you think you 

will go? 
I know it's a horrible place, 
All sorts of dead folks in a case, 
Like a lot of dry-goods for a show. 
There are lovers with balls in the brain, 
x\nd girls that were drowned in the Seine — 
We might go and just take a peep 
For you know it's so near ' Notre Dame' 
We could run over there to get calm, 
Or perhaps we should lose a night's sleep." 

" I think it's a shame to talk so ! 
Perhaps you may — there goes the bell — 
Come on, girls, how good things do smell, 
What a pity we must dine below !" 



Margaret Canmore's Chanel. 21 



MARGARET CANMORE'S CHAPEL. 

HIGH on a crag in Edinboro's view 
Queen Margaret's sturdy little chapel 

stands 
Eight centuries old, unharmed ; the pious 

hands 
That reared it builded better than they knew. 
Those walls so narrow yet could hold the few 
Who taught the love of Christ to Scottish 

bands. 
King Malcolm plundered all the border lands ; 
His children taught by Margaret daily grew 
To better living ; here their mother prayed, 
Hence went she, saintlike down to sick and 

poor 
And taught half-savage folk how they should 

live ; 
Thus young Prince David from his youth was 

made 
A Christian king to whom the Scottish moor 
No harvesting of lance and spear would give. 



2 2 Abbotsford. 



ABBOTSFORD. 

HERE in this case within the lordly hall 
I see the clothing that the master wore ; 
Upon the walls and on the polished floor 
Are treasures that he gathered to recall 
The hoary Past that entered here, and all 
Its wealth, chivalric and heraldic, bore. 
The library and study, where no more 
Among familiar forms his footsteps fall, 
Still hold his cherished volumes ; here the 

chair 
And desk where once he wrote are eloquent. 
Here dwells for aye the spirit of Romance, 
In stone and plaster prisoned by the heir 
Of countless fancies ; here rare days were 

spent 
By this true knight whose pen was all his 

lance. 



Elstow. 23 



ELSTOW. 

QUAINT English village, saved to later 
time, 
So snugly hidden 'mid the poppied fields ; 
The weather-painted thatch each cottage 

shields 
And in the crumbling tower still hangs the 

chime 
That lured John Bunyan from what seemed 

sublime 
With all the magic that a belFs tone yields. 
Time sleeps, or here a gentler sceptre wields. 
This green, ere Buriyan dreamed that sport 

was crime 
Was his delight for games the English love ; 
And there the cot where, with his sweet 

young wife. 
He learned to lead a consecrated life 
Unaltered stands ; what visions from above 
Of Christian struggling 'gainst Apollyon's 

powers. 
Here daily floated through his musing hours ! 



24 The Tower of London. 



THE TOWER OF LONDON. 

THE glistening crowns of kings : the heads- 
man's block : 
The tower where two fair princes once were 

slain : 
The records dim of many a bloody reign 
Where walls are carved with names that call 

a flock 
Of harmless ghosts, whom no harsh grating 

lock 
Can prison now for years where hope is vain : 
To stand on Tower Hill to-day were pain 
Could we recall those forms of noble stock 
Who suffered there. The Traitor's Gate is 

barred ; 
The rack and thumb-screws please the idler's 

eye; 
And these long lines of polished armor call 
The memory of the struggles long and hard 
That England won 'gainst those who would 

defy 
Her power behind these spears upon the wall. 



A Flozver from Mont Blanc. 25 



A FLOWER FROM MONT BLANC. 

THIS little flower I picked ten years ago ; 
I say 'twas brave, the tender thing that 

spread 
Its azure petals on the mountain dread 
Which rises highest, crowned with Alpine 

snow : 
Upon the glacier's edge it chanced to grow ; 
It looked forth o'er a field where all was dead, 
And cheerily to me that day it said : 
*'This simple truth of God I've learned to 

know : 
That where earth seems most rugged, there 

the smile 
Is needed most ; that love should always dare 
To face the cold of cheerless regions, where 
The world, grown hard, seems needing it the 

most; 
So I have left the valley's flowery host. 
And strive this lonely desert to beguile." 



26 The Lion of Lucerne. 



THE LION OF LUCERNE. 

NO wonder that the pilgrim oft will turn 
To that cool nook beneath the giant 
rock, 
Survival of the ancient glacier's shock, 
Where dwells the cherished idol of Lu- 
cerne. 
No longer mute, the living stone must burn 
With eloquence that sculpture can unlock, 
And through the mind there flies a wak- 
ened flock 
Of fancies from the past, and hearts here 
learn 
To love that brave guard of the Swiss who 
bore 
The attack that shattered France and slew^ 

her king : 
Here royalty before us lieth low ; 
What noble suffering ere his woes are o'er ! 
About the lilied shield he still doth cling, 
Though from his spear-rent side the life- 
drops flow. 



hi the Colosseum, 27 



IN THE COLOSSEUM. 

MASSIVE form of fallen glory 
From the elder world of story, 
In thy silence eloquent : 
Like a magic ring around me 
Thou by century hnks hast bound me ; 
Never can thy charm be spent. 

Round thy outer walls what murmurs 

Of a world in tumult surging 

Through a thousand years, still urging 

On to life and on to death ; 

But that feverish, fitful breath 

Here I feel not, for I linger 

Where Time gently lays his finger 

On these hoary stones. 

And I love them, though they echoed 

Once to human groans. 

For they say all strife is ended. 
All life's bitterness is blended 
With the peace that makes it dear. 
High above, where sat the nobles. 



28 In the Colosseum. 

Emperor, and vestal virgins, 
And the eager Roman throng, 
Barren stones, with time's dust laden. 
Bear no verdure, though the heavens. 
With soft rains and sunlight, long 
Have been striving to conceal 
Past deeds man would not reveal. 

But below, where mortals suffered 
Anguish, terror, where their life-blood 
Flowed upon the senseless stones. 
There the clustering ferns have sprung ; 
And the dewy, fairy mosses, 
With the star-leaved ivies hung, 
Breathe new life by spirits kindled ; 
Better tell than human tongue 
Of the beauty that arises 
From the courage and the patience 
Of the crushed, whom man despises. 
Heroes ne'er by Romans sung. 

Listen, far below the rock-bed 
Of this giant circle olden. 
Flows a purling stream in darkness. 
Still by ancient sources fed. 
Long ago that very streamlet 



Galileo's Lamf at Pisa. 29 

Cooled the feverish hps of captives 
Ere for Roman sport they bled. 
So the brooklet, ferns and ivies 
Cherish still the nameless dead. 



GALILEO'S LAMP AT PISA. 

I TOUCHED the quaint old bronze, and out 
it swung 
Through the great dome of the cathedral dim 
As years ago that lamp of light for him. 
The starry Galileo, swayed ; a tongue 
Of eloquence it still possessed ; it hung 
Unused but never useless, for each rim. 
Though empty of its cresset once in trim, 
Here open-mouthed proclaimed to old and 

young 
The word it whispered to the silent man 
Who suffered under persecution's ban. 
Though all the golden planets moving sang 
The praise of him who heard their wondrous 

chime. 
Along the roof of heaven what music rang 
As earth awoke to keep celestial time ! 



30 The Wolf of the Capitol. 



THE WOLF OF THE CAPITOL. 

GRIM little monster of Rome's early days, 
Still art thou nursingr those two won- 

drous boys? 
Through all the years hast thou not heard the 

noise 
Of Goth and Vandal o'er the bloodstained 

ways 
That lead to thy great capitol? Still stays 
Each infant here to drink new life, and toys 
With thy bronze dugs ; nor clash of spear 

annoys, 
Nor lightning stroke upon thy form betrays 
Thee, faithful mother, to forget thy care. 
For conscious art thou that this city old 
Can never let her pulsing heart grow cold 
Whilst thou, oblivious of time, dost bear 
That burden Cicero hath praised thee for. 
Palladium of Rome through peace and war. 



Fra Angelico. 31 



FRA ANGELICO. 

SAN Marco's convent walls for years were 
bare ; 
Few monks in Florence knew of beauty then, 
But one among them gave himself to men, 
The poor, the wretched were his constant 

care : 
So Christ said to him : *' Show your brothers 

there 
Within their cloistered house that once again 
I live with those who love me, now as when 
By Galilee I walked alone in prayer." 
Then Fra Angelico with brush in hand 
Adorned the dismal cells where dwelt the 

friars. 
Brought forth the scenes the Savior's lifetime 

knew ; 
Sad tears within the artist's eyes would stand 
To paint the Crucifixion ; his desires 
Were with those Angel triumphs that he 

drew. 



32 Alichael Angeld's David, 



MICHAEL ANGELO'S DAVID. 

NO wonder Angelo could never tire 
Of gazing at this form his hands once 

wrought, 
When youth and longing to the senses 

brought 
The love of human form and passion's fire, 
With all life's ardent dreams, the keen desire 
For fame, for heights no man has reached, 

still sought, 
While all that has been won seems almost 

naught. 
Like conquering David, he Vv^ould still aspire : 
And so the youth in marble living stands. 
Pebble and sling just meeting in his hands, 
With knit brows looking for the giant form, 
Unconscious in his naked beauty's power 
That he, the giant victor at this hour. 
Has waked the pigmy world to plaudits warm. 



Murillo's Madonnas. 33 



MURILLO'S MADONNAS. 

WHERE'ER appear the ecstacy and love 
Of that fair angel-face thy soul is 

seen, 
Murillo I What in us is base and mean 
Must die, as shines upon us from above 
That light which fell o'er thee ; the heavenly 

Dove, 
Descending, dwelt with thee, kept thy soul 

clean. 
That from pure visions thou mightst bring thy 

Queen 
Of Paradise to earth ; and, as a glove 
Conceals the hand but still reveals the form. 
The canvas hides thy mortal part from viev/. 
Yet shows what holy hours thy spirit knew. 
In misty lights of fading sunsets warm. 
Where singing cherubim and seraphim 
Dissolve the firmament in joyous hymn. 



34 Ponij>eii. 



POMPEII. 

AS in the lonely theatre I sit, 
Or wander through the roofless homes 

of stone, 
Or through the echoing streets where once 

the tone 
Of merchant or of huckster oft would hit 
The ears of passers with a noisy wit 
Which praise of countless wares abroad has 

blown, 
I think of that last universal groan 
Which sounded when this city's doom was 

writ — 
I think how short the struggle and the pain — 
Of all the desolation hid from view 
By flower and grass that o'er this grave once 

sprung. 
Ere man brought those past woes to light 

again — 
Vesuvius, far away against the blue. 
Grieves that her secret sin from earth was 

wrung. 



When the Sun Comes Over the 35 
Mountain. 



WHEN THE SUN COMES OVER THE 
MOUNTAIN. 

HE has fallen asleep with a broken toy 
And his cheeks are wet, though he's 
past annoy, 
For he'll wake to-morrow the same glad boy 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

O'er the broad, still vale as the shadows fall 
And cover one day that is past recall. 
Let us bury our grief for the good of all 
Ere the sun comes over the mountain. 

Then the day that dawns will be better far 
For the past that has taught what our failings 

are. 
So that nothing again may from heaven bar. 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

The fruitless lives that we may have led. 
And the heartless words that we oft have said 



36 When the Sun Comes Over the 
Mountain. 



Let us trust they may rest with the nameless 

dead 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

And the tangled threads in the skein of life 
That we fain would cut with impatient knife, 
May loose of themselves and end our strife 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

The hopeless light of a dreary day 
How soon 'tis forgotten when passed away ! 
It may make us stronger upon our way 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

And the earth that seemed so dark and cold 
That our hopes could never again unfold, 
We know will be touched with rays of gold 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 

All the dangers wierd of the darkening night 
That draw us like children about the light. 
Like idle dreams will fade from our sight 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 



Bhiets. 37 

And the noble deeds that we would have 

done, 
The fadeless laurels we would have won, 
May be ours yet in the life begun 
When the sun comes over the mountain. 



BLUETS. 

SPRINGING by the dusty roadside. 
Or in meadows where the moss 
Clusters round the dewy hillocks 
That the glow-worm glides across, 

Oh, such hosts of blue eyes open. 
Open wide to greet the day ; 
How I wish that I could utter 
All the words you'd have me say ! 

Tiny soul-waifs, striving upward, 
Living your allotted span. 
All unconsciously perfecting 
Something for the soul of man. 



38 The Slider, 

Not the stately pride of lily 
Nor the passion of the rose, 
Pulsates through your modest petals 
Born where weed or grass-blade grows. 

I can see the hope and patience 
Shining from your gentle eyes, 
That may one day enter woman 
Helping her from depths to rise. 

Teaching some one humbly living 
How she may with beauty fill 
All the weary world around her 
By her soul-life, if she will. 



THE SPIDER. 

WEAVE thy web, thou cunning spinner, 
Spread thy cloth for many a dinner ; 
Fair the table, deftly angled 
With the knotted silk all spangled 
By the sunbeam falling slantwise 
Through the barn's half-open door. 



The Spder. 39 

When a boy I gazed upon thee, 
Fear and admiration bound me, 
And to thee, my idol, cast I 
Many a helpless victim fly ; 
And lest some one should detect me 
Secret shame I often bore. 

Thou wert once a Lydian maiden ; 
To and fro the shuttle laden, 
Played in skillful fingers forming 
Figures from thy fancy swarming, 
Beauteous scenes on royal purple. 
Beauteous beyond compare. 

And in pride, you never rested 
Till in skill you had contested 
With the wise and great Minerva, 
Never should a mortal serve her 
Such a trick, to boast of powers 
Greater than e'en gods can bear. 

Then the goddess viewed your weaving, 
Half in wrath but sorely grieving. 
And your wondrous fabric tearing 
Soon she sent you forth despairing. 



40 The Slider. 

For you learned 'twas she who gave you 
All the cunning that you knew. 

When in shame you sought to perish 
Kind Minerva ceased to cherish 
Bitter thoughts, and gently touching 
That harsh rope that thou wert clutching, 
Twisting round thy neck ; and changed it 
To a harmless cobweb clew. 

Then from form of maid forsaken 
Changed, an insect shape was taken ; 
But thy cunning skill can never 
God nor mortal from thee sever 
Whilst thou spinnest, cruel creature 
Longing for thy dreadful meal. 

And poor, foolish insects hover 
O'er that web which thou dost cover 
With a honey-dew to lure them 
To the net where you secure them, 
With your glistening eyes rejoicing 
When your little sword they feel. 



To the AiitJior of '' America:' 41 



TO THE AUTHOR OF *' AMERICA." 

IN that retired study canst thou hear, 
Old friend, the voices of thy nation free 

Sing those sweet words that heaven-born Lib- 
erty 

Once softly whispered to thy listening ear? 

Let fancy hst again ; there cometh near 

In waves the song of children yet to be. 

And still they sing '*My Country, 'tis of 
Thee." 

Brave anthem, to our hearts and altars dear ! 

I've sung it on the hights 'mid Alpine snow. 

And on the winding Rhine where castles 
tower. 

On Lake Maggiore, blue as skies that bend ; 

Then thrilled my heart, then patriot fires 
would glow ; 

Thy words will stir our souls with greater 
power 

Than all thy fellow poets ever penned. 



42 A Wayside Picture, 



A WAYSIDE PICTURE. 

UPON a fence beside the dusty way 
Some traveler had painted three short 
words, 
His sermon to the busy world, you'd say ; 
'Twas, '' God is love." It pleased e'en flow- 
ers and birds. 

For one wee sparrow in his coat of brown 
Had found the painted rail and perched 
above 

Trilled forth a carol, then looked wisely down, 
As if to say : *' Yes ; I know God is love." 

And close beside the fence a golden-rod 
Had risen from the clod that gave it birth. 

And with its sunny smile and gentle nod 
Said: "So think we, the children of the 
earth." 

I'd traveled o'er the road for many a mile 
And dull had grown the long familiar way ; 

But this, my wayside picture will beguile 
E'en winter hours when twilight veils the day. 



Look Within. 43 



LOOK WITHIN. 

BELIEVE me it is better far 
To lead a simple, homely life, 
Than 'mid a world of care and strife 
To feel how vain man's glories are. 

The soul creates the beautiful : 

The sun-light on the kitchen floor, 
Or through the barn's half open door 

Might fill joy's measure brimming full. 

So few have time to feel God's love 
That streams into the lowliest nook. 
And all our books, save Nature's book 

Seem shutting out the light above. 

'Tis good to move alone and think 
When all but lost in earthly things 
Of blessings that can ne'er take wings, 

Though all our wealth in ruin sink. 

Oh, may we sometime come to feel 
That little gains bring greater wealth 



44 Look Within. 

To heart and soul and mind in health, 
Than treasured hoards that men conceal. 

And live apart for peace we must 

From those who fill their homes and lives 
With pompous show, while fortune thrives. 

And yields what crumbles to the dust. 

For envy like a canker burns 

If once we feel the power men hold 
Who seem to rule with rod of gold, 

And all our peace to madness turns. 

We love the beautiful, I know ; 

We^d fill our homes with gems of art 
A coach and four delights the heart, 
Though much seems only idle show. 

But in this world what's dearest, best. 
Without a price kind Nature gives ; 
There's not a tree nor flower that lives 

But holds the source whence man is blest. 



To the Bluebird. 45 



TO THE BLUEBIRD. 

A FLASH of blue along the fences gray, 
A carol sweet as dream of paradise ! 
Bird spirit, thou hast stolen from the skies 
A bit of their own azure, borne away 
The treasure on thy wings that from earth's 
clay 
We, joyous, may by thee to heaven rise I 
I well beheve the seer of old, so wise. 
Who tells us shattered souls have found their 

way 
To life within the feathery breasts of birds. 
Where sing they forth past aspirations glad, 
Or sorrows that have known no balm on 
earth. 
Or holy thoughts that never have found 
words. 
Or glimpses of fulfilment, joyous, mad 
With song that dies on human hps ere 
birth. 



46 To the Song Sf arrow. 



TO THE SONG SPARROW. 

THOU little bird that singst at even-tide 
The sweetest song that ever I have 

known, 
The morning hour, ere dew from grass has 

flown, 
Is thine as well ; when silences abide, 
Thou break'st the hush of noon on landscape 

wide. 
Thou lovest, little spirit when alone 
To thrill with quiet ecstacy, in tone 
That draweth forth my very soul to hide 
Unseen with thee, remote from city's strife, 
Where thou dost freely sing as thou dost 

breathe, 
Because the world to thee is radiant 
And gives thee all thou'dst ask, a joyous life 
Without a trace of sorrow hid beneath. 
Yes ; earth sometimes gives all the heart can 

want. 



Fortune. 47 



FORTUNE. 



5'T^IS a puzzle, this world, for we never can 
1 know 

Why some should come up and others go 
down. 
And no wonder we sometimes must weary 
grow 
With plucking at heedless Fortune's gown ; 

And asking her why she regards not us 
And busies herself with other men ; 

W^hat have we done to be treated thus? 

Would she have us forget her and scorn 
her, then? 

We cannot : she knows we are helpless borne 
To her feet where we ask for just one 
smile ; 
Little cares she how weary and worn 

Are the souls that her wondrous arts be- 
guile. 



48 Fortune. 

'Tis not that we're children who've gone 
astray 
And deserve to be punished by trials here. 
For how many we see cast down today 

Better men than we, while we've much 
that's dear. 

And some may say that our days of gloom 
Should be lightened by seeing what others 
bear; 

But if gloating thus in our hearts finds room 
It is surely time to cry, '' Beware !" 

Would you be better if fortune smiled. 
Or be of more use to the world today? 

By the dust of the earth be less defiled? 

"I'd be willing to try it," most men would 

say. 

If valued at naught some souls are wrecked, 
'Tis when on our mettle we do our best ; 

Alas, alas, for the dread effect 

On the heart that must stand this saddest 
test: 



Fortune. 49 

When powerless, worthless seems the hand 
Though one feels there is work he could do 
so well, 

While helpless, bewildered he still must stand 
And list to what seems a funeral knell. 

Some are born to a ceaseless discontent, 
And discontent is divine, they say ; 

But I've known some souls that grew warped 
and bent. 
And I'd rather be godlike some other way. 

But while there are life and youth there's 
hope. 
And we know not what worlds of light may 
be 
The home of the soul that may darkly grope 
In this small, small part of eternity. 

The hand may drop and the eye grow dim 
While we wait and wonder and look 
through tears 

When something like sound of a distant hymn 
Shall sing itself to our raptured ears. 



50 Fortune. 

It will sing of the times that we thought were 
spent 
In useless toil and in thankless task, 
And a gleam from heaven o'er those days 
sent 
Will make them dearer than heart could 
ask. 

For the inspirations that oft would burn 
In that silent past like a scorching fire, 

From their lifeless ashes have seemed to turn 
Like that fabled bird from its funeral pyre. 

Not what we are, what we've striven to be 
Is the measure of soul in this test of life ; 

Through the music of time that is past we see 
Why we were called to meet this strife. 

And the eyes that were dim grow bright 
again, 
Though the years have stolen our dreams 
away. 
As we feel that no heaven-born hope was 
vain. 
For it lighted the soul to the perfect day. 



In Memoriam. 51 



IN MEMORIAM. 

KIND father, faithful husband, genial 
man ; 
Books, pictures, nature, whatsoever brings 
The soul to commune with the higher 

things — 
He loved. Yet plodding since his early days 

began 
Courageously he labored 'neath the ban 
Of slow disease, of failure which oft wrings 
The heart of many a stronger frame that 

flings 
Itself away before by nature's plan 
The end should come. I see through veiling 

years 
Pathetic beauty in a life like his. 
He craved more love than silent lips would 

ask. 
Deserved it, too, and ah, how sad it is 
If measure be not full, as age appears, 
Ere kindly death has ended life's long task. 



52 In AIemo7'iam, 



IN MEMORIAM. 

SHE sings again those songs we loved to 
hear 
So long ago, when children at our plays, 
The broken voice now sweet as in old days. 
She walks in heavenly gardens where the 

dear 
Familiar flowers she tended year by year 
Spring up to welcome her with loving gaze, 
All fadeless now, and each its tribute pays 
To her who always saw the soul appear 
In their poor earthly forms. Today she lives 
With oh, so many dear ones gone before ; 
For her the parting anguish is no more. 
With souls congenial there she takes and 

gives 
The best that blest companionship can know. 
Her lonely hours forgotten long ago. 



Among- the Pines. 53 



AMONG THE PINES. 

OH, the singing of the pines ! 
'Tis a song I love ; 
Look aloft, unbroken lines 

Rise to heaven above. 
While the living branches high 
Half reveal, half veil the sky. 

How they murmur like sea waves, 
How they sigh o'er all life's graves, 

Hollowed long ago ! 
How their tones of softened sorrow 
Wring the soul, bring desolation 
Quench the hopes we'd fondly borrow 
From the promise of the morrow 

Only listeners know. 

Hark ! their voices once again 
Thrill in plaintive minor strain ! 
How it soothes and how it covers, 

Buries us in rest. 
Where forgotten all so gladly each vain 
quest 



^A Among the Pines. 

Floats away upon the sea 
Of a dream-born mystery. 

We are borne we care not where, 
Nothing but soft sound and air 
And the ghmpses of the sky. 
Such the bhss of those who die 
Tempered only by the cry 
Of the soul at last set free : 
'* Can the earth still fetter me?" 



the Wisp, 55 



WILL O' THE WISP. 

IF soul could only fold its wings and rest 
With the assurance that this life can 

bring 
But little for long search and wandering — 
If it could know that all it bears is best, 
Oh, how much greater then would be the zest 
Of living, freed from phantom forms that 

cling 
To all our hours and in sad ditties sing 
Of what we might attain. Ah, foolish guest 
For those whom friends and fortune seldom 

aid! 
It fires the brain ; we wander on in tears. 
Still long and seek and labor through the 

years 
For an Elysium that was never made 
For us, too weak, who would have loved it so 
But sinned in looking for our heaven below. 



56 To the P?'eacher, 



TO THE PREACHER. 

GOOD parson, live with us and learn 
What most we need who work and 
sweat ; 
You little know how much we yearn 
For words that few have spoken yet. 

Do tell us of our faults, and show 
How we may serve our fellow-men ; 

Like wandering sheep we often go. 
So you must call us back again. 

The man who week-days pores o'er books 

And crams with scientific stuff. 
You'll find on Sunday higher looks. 

For surely, six days' work's enough. 

I know you like philosophy, 

These college fellows always do ; 

But 'twont take simple folk like me 

Through worries when we're sick and blue. 



To the Preacher, 57 

Somehow it seems when preachers tell, 
In plain, straight words, of holy life, 

That high folk hsten just as well. 
For with old sin we're all at strife. 

And then the children understand ; 

The parson reaches way around ; 
He helps us all, those words are grand 

That hold the church together bound. 

In books you love to spend your days. 

I'd have you wise as any man ; 
On Sundays let us give God praise, 

On week days lecture all you can. 

And we don't care for doctrine much. 
For now-a-days we all draw nigh ; 

These creeds of ours are going to touch, — 
For don't we each for heaven try? 

The Bible's the best book we've got. 
Though precious little most folks go 

To read it now for what they've not. 
So you must tell them all they'll know. 



58 The Old Songs. 

And you can make it live again, 

And bring its good words home to all ; 

They'll show us when we're false 'mong men. 
And lift us, save us when we fall. 



THE OLD SONGS. 

WHEN from the keys at twilight's hour 
Some friendly hand has wakened 
lays, 
Sweet memories of long-gone days 
Come wave on wave with mystic power. 

Now *' Auld Lang Syne" brings back again 
The winter eves, the fireside ; 
The loved, the lost around us glide. 
They whisper low like summer rain. 

" Old Oaken Bucket" mingles all 
The sweetest rural spots we've seen, 
And lights and shadows o'er the green 
Of blended landscapes softty fall. 



The Old Songs, . 59 

*' Sweet Beulah Land," with thy dear strain 
We pass within the heavenly gate, 
Where wrapped in glad surprise we wait 
And dread the call to earth again. 

Before my eyes a jaunty maid 
With tripping step comes dancing by, 
To notes of " Comin' Thro' the Rye :" 
Long years ago I with her strayed. 

And she sang *' Edinboro' Town," 
Burns' " Bonny Doon" and such like airs — 
The tunes we whistle unawares 
When struggling some grief to drown. 

A window oped at spring of year : 

From distant spire how sweetly swells 

The chime that rings "Those Evening 

Bells," 
The melody that shrines a tear. 

" The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls," 
Now blends and floats across the mead 
Where wandering cattle peaceful feed, 
Or browse along by low stone walls. 



6o The Old Sonors 



<!> 



"• Oft in the Stilly Night" awakes 

A tender symphony of life, 

And death seems o'er, we part with strife, 

While through our past a soft light breaks. 

Such songs as these must ever melt 
The heart, howe'er so high or low, 
When studied airs rare triumphs know 
So few the soul have in them felt. 



The Bagfife. 6i 



THE BAGPIPE. 

A NATION mourning for a fallen king, 
The tears of women over Flodden 
Field : 
The doom of Scotland by a compact sealed ; 
A group of Highlanders who faithful cling 
To their young Chevalier, and wildly sing 
The clansmen's warsongs, soon again to wield 
The claymore at Culloden, ne'er to yield 
While Cumberland has forces left to wring 
The life blood from those Scots whom none 

can bind. — 
The pibroch's notes no more through mount- 
ains wind. 
But far away in solitary glen, 
List to the sob of broken-hearted men ! 
'Tis changed — now minstrelsy and dance 

enthrall — 
All these the bagpipe's wild, weird strains re- 
call. 



62 By the Wayside, 



BY THE WAYSIDE. 

THOUGH the road leads up the hillside, 
Though 'tis spread with dust and peb- 
bles ; 
While the sun beats down with fervor, 
Yet the tangled thicket borders, 
'Mid their briers, grass and mosses, 
Hold an untold wealth of beauty. 

So along life's roadside, clusters 
All that's dear of fellow-feeling, 
Blossoming to cheer and bless us. 
And perhaps stray tear-drops water 
Wayside plants that may seem lifeless. 
Soon to spring and bloom forever. 



Hefaticas. 63 



HEPATIC AS. 

FAIRY hands from out the mould, 
While the early spring blows cold, 
Closely clasped their fingers hold. 

One warm day the raindrops fall, 
And a mist hangs over all ; 
From the trees the song-birds call. 

Then those fairies ope their palms 
For a single raindrop alms. 
Spreading to the hght their charms. 

Fingers touched with color soft, 
Frail, but bravely held aloft. 
In the rain must tremble oft. 

But the heart is warm below ; 
'Neath those furry coats I know 
Tides of Hfe must ebb and flow. 

And those leaflets, skyward spread, 

To my soul this day have said, 

" God and beauty ne'er are dead !" 



64 JVall Whitman. 



WALT WHITMAN. 

THE poet sees the soul in common things ; 
Speech welleth forth Hke spring of 
mountain brook, 
The channels man would make, it hath for- 
sook, 
Its heedless brawl a worthless tribute brings — 
But no : beneath the careless song there sings 
A spirit keen of vision that can look 
Through man, through nature, hid in secret 

nook ; 
The unaffected voice with gladness rings 
As life's eternal verities forever rise. 
Chase one another from the poet's sight 
Though rapid pen has caught the shadowy 

form 
And given to the world some fleeting prize, 
A bubbling cadence, brimming with delight. 
With fervor of a wholesome heart-blood 
warm. 



To Shelley, 65 



TO SHELLEY. 

WHERE floats the cloud with spirit 
wings on high, 
Where soars the lark 'neath heaven's arch 

and sings 
Of perfect golden days, as wide he flings 
His " unpremeditated art" to sky. 
And wood and stream-lit mead and uplands 

nigh; 
Where o'er fair seas skiffs float with peaceful 

wings, 
Or in the wilderness where unseen things 
Brood o'er the soul that sadly ponders why 
'Twas born to struggle with its destiny, 
I see thee, Shelley, free and wandering still. 
Forgiven by the world and God I trust, 
Now that thy spirit eyes can clearer see 
That world thy aspiration sought to fill 
With forms not made to crumble into dust. 



66 Found in Central Park. 



FOUND IN CENTRAL PARK. 

TURNED aside from all the bustle 
Of the heartless, selfish city, 
Hidden 'mong the quiet pathways 
Sheltered from both pride and pity, 

One sought sweet release at noonday 
From a life that knew no sweetness ; 
For all hope had turned to ashes, 
Not one dream had reached completeness. 

Friendless woman, gaunt of feature, 
Sunbrowned face with pain deep graven, 
Though kind death would fain have 

smoothed it 
When the storm-tossed reached her haven. 

Coarse print gown and dusty bonnet, 
Faded gloves, worn shoes that cover 
Feet that no more shall be weary ; 
She could see fair skies above her. 



Found in Central Park. 67 

In her old purse these her treasures : 
First the sacred marriage token 
Worn so thin by hands that labored ; 
Like her heart forlorn 'twas broken. 

And a faded rose in paper, 
Oh, the memories it brought her. 
When her fair cheeks caught its color 
Mirrored as in limpid water ! 

Next a silken curl that doubtless 
Oft had caught the tears fast falling, 
As from paradise she fancied 
She could hear her lost child calling, 

In a handkerchief embroidered 
With two letters intertwining 
She had wrapped her last two coppers 
Ere this weary world resigning. 

For the purchase of her freedom 
Was the shining weapon near her ; 
Who can blame when life has vanished 
One who finds death so much dearer? 



68 My Little World, 



MY LITTLE WORLD. 

FIVE sentinel pines guard my horizon's 
gold 
Where summer suns have vanished in the 

west 
For five fair years that I have spent in rest 
In this still valley with its secrets old, 
Of field and stream and wood and hearth- 
stone cold, 
Where simple country folk with song and 

jest 
Once gathered in content, and found the 
best 
Of life. Up yonder, eastward, 'mid the 

mould 
Of that dim wood, beside the straggling brook 
I'll find for you stone piles where cresses 

grow. 
Here stood the mill a century ago. 
Now best of all, far to the southeast look 
M}^ faithful mountains, lit by winter suns. 
While northward, o'er the brook the stage 
road runs. 



The Brook. 69 



THE BROOK. 

BY one still woodland pool I love it best, 
Where trout come forth and clustering 

fern fronds bend ; 
I love it best where aimlessly I wend 
My way through pine-girt mead ; there, all at 

rest 
Its waters seem delaying, fearful lest 
Their peace may be disturbed, their quiet 

end 
In rocky falls where still my steps attend, 
And there I love it best, for with what zest 
I watch it struggling 'gainst its stubborn foes. 
I love it best where, by the road, it goes 
In hiding 'neath the bridge, then out again 
Where 'mong the cress my horse may drink 

her mi. 
I love it best 'mid hummocks of the fen. 
Where bluets star the sod and robins trill. 



70 Sick JSfeftune, 



SICK NEPTUNE. 

[A Souvenir of Asbury Park.] 

OLD Neptune was sick, 
Man had played him a trick, 
And had ruthlessly fed him 
With all sorts of things ; 

His crown was awry 
And quite covered one eye. 
While, with woe most pathetic. 
He looked through the other. 
To see what had become 
Of its poor blinded brother. 

And there on the strand 
Intermixed with the sand 
He had case from his depths 
Inconceivable things. 

There were watersoaked hats. 
Some dead hens and rats ; 



Sick Nefttmc, 71 

And lemons and sausage and apples and 

bread, 
Countless boxes and bottles 
Of strange smelling mixtures, 
The staves of old barrels 
And stray curtain fixtures 
And brushes and dusters and slats of a bed ; 
A satchel and purse 
Both quite empty of treasure, 
And battered up pails, 
Made of tin and of wood : 
A toy house and blocks 
That now scarce could give pleasure 
E'en to a child that is bound to be good. 

Here fragments of squash 

And the peels of banana 

With onions and turnips 

In curious manner 

Commingling with artichokes, bellov/s and 

corks ; 
Pale slices of melon and handles of forks ; 
The wreck of a baby coach 
Causing a wonder. 
If baby were swallowed 
Those frothy waves under. 



72 The Wreck of the Maine, 

What wonder, what wonder, 
With this hotch-potch under 
The calm rising breast 
Of old Nep at his best. 
That he suddenly sickened, 
Was strangely distressed ; 
And heaving, and heaving 
He soon was relieving 
His o'er-loaded stomach 
That could not digest. 



THF WRECK OF THE MAINE. 

[At Havana, February 15, 1898.] 

THEY lived in momentary fear. 
The boys aboard our navy's pride, 
As o'er Havana's harbor wide 
They looked and saw the masts of Spain 
And knew the bitterness that here 
Was rife against us, and how vain 
Were parleyings of our countr}^ now 
To make an ancient nation bow 
To claims humanity holds dear. 



The Wi^eck of the Maine. 73 

And there lay Cuba, tropic isle, 

The dead and dying by her shore — 
Her people through the years before 
Had struggled 'gainst the oppressor's hand 
While war and famine stalked the land 
By Spanish gold and heroes fed 
And liberty seemed cold and dead : 

How could we sit unmoved the while ? 

'Twas time, if Cuba's wrongs stirred not 
America self-poised and calm. 
Long wrapped in peace and dreading 

harm ; 
If she could view the oppressor's wrong 
And never raise an arm grown strong 
With all prosperity can give. 
Nor cared if neighbor die or live ; 

'Twas well that loss should be her lot. 

That martyred crew ! the few must bear 
The pain that all deserve to share : 
Why is it ever thus that fate 
Takes the devoted ere abate 
The sins the multitude commit 
Through wilfulness or want of wit? 



74 The Spanish Wa?-. 

The blast that tore those plates of steel 
And bore our heroes down to death 
Was but the scorching Spanish breath 
Poor Cuba lived for years to feel. 
Let useless parley cease at last : 
Deeds, deeds ! the time for words is past. 



THE SPANISH WAR. 

IF Cuba's griefs once touched thee to the 
heart, 
My country, and thou longed to make her 

free. 
Why didst thou seek for bloody victory 
O'er other lands that were of Spain a part? 
To Cuban eyes the tears unbidden start 
While other nations doubt to trust in thee, 
When all forgetful of high aim they see 
Thou dost so far pursue war's cruel art. 
Oh, why has war to this enlightened day 
Survived 'mid growth of wisdom and of love. 
To bring men back to primal beasts again? 
Can wrongs be righted in no other way? 
Have we no faith in God who rules above 
And metes out justice to our fellow-men? 



In Afemortam. 75 

IN MEMORIAM. 
Hamilton Fish, Jr. 

DEAD in that isle of the southern sea ! 
Shot by a Spanish hand, 
And the word comes over the miles to me 
That he fell for his native land. 

His mother am I, and who can tell 

The heart ache I bore that day. 
When the restless boy that I loved so well 

Hastened to join the fray? 

I was proud of him then but I saw it all, 

The future that women see, 
And knew he'd be one of the first to fall : 

'Twas a warning that came to me. 

From a child he was reckless and wild and 
free. 

With the daring that women love ; 
'Twas the soldier spirit that longed to be 

In the battle for God above. 



76 In Me7noria7n. 

'Twas scarcely more than a score of years 

I had called the boy my own ; 
Though the nation may greet his name with 
cheers, 

Weeping, I sit alone. 

On the leaf of fame or on angel's page 

His name may be traced today ; 
But can this bring back to my lonely age 

My boy who has gone away ? 

I shall find his childhood's treasures hid 
In some nook that mothers know ; 

The clothes that he wore are beneath some 
hd, 
And o'er them my tears must flow. 

In Texas he rescued a little child, 
Snatched up by his strong right arm 

From the Rough Riders' steeds in their onset 
wild ; 
Why wasn't my boy saved from harm ? 

With his fallen comrades they laid him to rest 
Wrapped in the palm-tree's leaves ; 

Though the hero's palm for the man is best 
The mother still sits and grieves. 



Un expressed. 7 7 



UNEXPRESSED. " 

IF all the best thoughts that have ever come 
To each of us, though humble lives we 

lead, 
Could but have found expression ! If the seed 
Had fallen on good ground, not found us 

dumb 
When we were bid to speak, would not the 

sum 
Of these inspirings have won a meed 
Of greater praise than we have all agreed 
To shower upon the gifted? If the hum 
Of airs celestial, ringing in our ears 
And thrilling all our being could be caught 
And in our earthly instruments be taught 
To reproduce the wondrous tone that cheers 
Some solitary moment, rarely blest. 
We might of Heaven no greater gift request. 



78 Chanticleer. 



CHANTICLEER. 

1 DON'T care what you say, I love the bird, 
Though oft he's roused me by his merry 

din, 
And sometimes called forth words that are a 

sin 
When at morn's early hour his voice I've 

heard ; 
What happy memories his notes have stirred 
Of peaceful country homes in which I've been 
A welcome inmate, hours most near akin 
To paradise. And then in praise what word 
Of mine can fitly paint the scarlet plume, 
Its glossy sheen, the coral battled comb, 
The proud, round eye with honest spirit filled ! 
He lords it o'er his feathered dames unchilled 
By all the blasts of winter, and his home. 
The old brown shed, his voice awakes from 

gloom. 



Hidden Things, 79 



HIDDEN THINGS. 

ALL the beauty of a flower 
Springs from hidden things ; 
Motes absorbed 'mid sun and shower 
Out of earth it brings. 

Gems as bright as crowns have treasured 

Sea still hides away ; 
Gold far more than hands have measured 

Rocks still hold in sway. 

Hidden music keeps in motion 

All the orbs of night ; 
Tunes the great and restless ocean, 

Breathes through each bird's flight. 

Hidden germs are always working 

In these forms of ours, 
Good or bad, forever lurking. 

Strange contending powers. 



8o Hidden Things. 

Hidden songs the wires are singing 

While our words they bear ; 
Sweet tunes to the winds they're flinging 

Though we little care. 

Hidden thoughts our minds are hoarding, 

All for good or ill ; 
Light or darkness each affording, 

While we roam at will. 

Till at last to rest we're bidden ; 

Body hides away. 
Then the soul, no longer hidden 
Wakes to endless day. 



Life, 



LIFE. 

ALL lives are full of pathos, we would 
weep, 
Could we but see the struggle of each soul 
From earliest childhood, while the long years 

roll 
Like billows on a weltering sea and keep 
The helpless one still battling with the deep. 
Between despair and hope he sees the goal. 
The peaceful haven vanish midst the whole 
Of heaven's effulgence, when with one strong 

leap 
It seems he might have reached it. No ; 'tis 

gone. 
And what is life? 'Tis helplessness, 'tis 

power ; 
'Tis love, 'tis hate ; 'tis sweetness mixed with 

sour ; 
'Tis aspiration e'en to God's own throne — 
It is a fall to hell's black depths alone — 
'Tis one long darkness, waiting for the dawn. 



82 To an Old Portrait Over My 

Fireplace, 



TO AN OLD PORTRAIT OVER MY 
FIREPLACE. 

[Francesco Sforza, Pontifical Duke of Milan in 1450.] 

FOUNDER of the Sforza line, 
Four long centuries ago ! 
Ruler born, that power of thine 
Milan's men were proud to show. 

Virile locks, crisp, tipped with gray, 
Swarthy cheek, broad-arching brow ; 

Mouth and nose whose firmness say : 
''Foes, beware, I'm monarch now." 

In thy heavy armor clad. 

And that cap of war's own hue. 
Cold and stern thy look, yet sad, 

Dost thou love those honors new? 

Looking forward in the dark 

Canst thou see the arms of Spain 



To an Old Portrait Over My 83 
Firej)lace. 

Triumphing o'er Milan? Hark ! 
Fate proclaims thy conquests vain. 

Like a bauble tossed about 

See thy dukedom fall again : 
Austria has snatched it out 

From the useless strife of men. 

Back to Italy at last 

Falls the gem that thou didst love : 
Now^ v^ith Rome thy lot is cast ; 

Like a Roman shrined above 

Thou to me hast ever been, 

In thy strong face, half divine ; 
And thy glance my soul doth w^in 

When my lifted eye meets thine. 



84 Coleridge's Unfnished Kiihla Khan, 



COLERIDGE'S UNFINISHED KUBLA 
KHAN 

AND ITS COMPLETION AS IT COMES TO MY 
FANCY. 

|N Xanadu did Kubla Kahn 

1 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 

Where Alph, the sacred river ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girded round : 

And there were gardens bright with sinuous 

rills, 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing 

tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh I that deep, romantic chasm that 

slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
A savage place as holy and enchanted 



Coleridge's Unjinished Kubla Khan. 85 

As e'er beneath a v/aning moon was haunted 
By woman, wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 

seething. 
As if the earth in fast, thick pants were 

breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced 
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail. 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and 

ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reached the caverns measureless to 

man. 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war. 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves ; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 



86 Coleridge'' s Unfinished Kubla Khan. 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw ; 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on a dulcimer she played 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song. 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me 

That with music loud and long 

I would build that dome in air. 

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 

And all she heard should see them there, 

And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! 

His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 

Weave a circle round him thrice. 

And close your eyes with holy dread. 

For he on honey-dew hath fed 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

[end of Coleridge's lines.] 



There Kubla dreamed the livelong day, 
The poppy's incense faintly rose. 
The waters lulled him to repose ; 



Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan, 87 

Those whispering voices 'mong the rocks 
Where naiads of the fountain stay 
Seemed drawing his wrapt soul away ; 
And dreamland spirits came in flocks 
To find beneath this mystic pleasure-dome 
With the unconscious Khan their rightful 
home. 

They drew his spirit from his lips 
As gently came his measured breath, 
And left his form not wrapt in death, 
But like the sun when 'neath ecHpse 
Its light is gone though still 'tis day. 

Resistlessly was Kubla borne 

Among the rocks where quaint and worn 

Was many a cradle hollowed by the wave. 

And into one his spirit sank 

Where clustering moss above the bank. 

And violets and asphodels 

A sweet, entrancing perfume gave 

While he, in wonder floated there 

And listened to the fountain's bells. 

The liquid voices of the wave 

In murmurous welcome rose, and one, 

A spirit, fairer than the rest 



88 Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan. 

To his rapt eyes, in mute request 

Around him floated, sank his soul 

In fold of arms and sunny hair. 

And all her beauty thrilled him through 

As into her own being flowed 

His longing, loving life and grew 

A part of her in this abode. 

And as they mingled into one 
The water turned to liquid light 
And forms in iris colors dight 
About the new-made soul began 
To sing a royal roundelay 

For youth grown maid and maid grown man. 
Fair Arethuse at last had found the soul 
She long had sought to make her being 
whole. 

But Alpheus, father of the stream. 
She knew lurked here beneath a rock ; 
Would he pursue when Kubla Khan 
Along the current with her ran 
Well guarded by the naiad flock? 
With iris blades of emerald gleam 
They swept along ; the courtier train 
Saw Alpheus dull with sleep-dewed brain. 



Coleridge' s Unfinished Kubla Khan. 89 

King of the wave 
Rest, idle one ! 
Life is begun : 
None now can save 
Arethusa for thee ; 
No longer a maid, 
No longer afraid. 
From thee she's free. 

x\start the river-god awoke 

From dreams ecstatic, of the maid, 

As on his ears this music broke 

In notes that all his being swayed. 

While Arethuse and Kubla passed 

Around the towering wave-girt rocks — 

He cast his sleep-enwreathed locks 

From eyes that glowed with flames of love. 

And on he followed, flitting fast 

Down towards the sunless sea. 

His chariot, Triton-drawn was there 

A huge, a kelp-lined scallop-shell 

That o'er the deep waves' gentle swell 

More swiftly than the birds of air 

Pursued 'mid minstrelsy. 

Mortal that dareth. 
Mortal that careth 



90 Coleridge's Unfinished Kuhla Khan, 

My sacred realms to invade ; 

Terror shall smite thee, 

Sea depths shall blight thee, 

Mingle thou not with the maid. 

Arethuse, hear me. 

Or thou shalt fear me 

Ere thou shalt cross the great sea 

I shall o'ertake thee. 

And I shall make thee 

Quell the love-longing in me. 

But Arethuse scarce caught the strain 
As with her loved one on she sped — 
They'd reached the portals of the main 
And into the wide sea they'd fled. 
Their way alight with moving stars 
And phosphorescent forms that float — 
They glided on 'neath coral bars. 
Beneath their forms each sparkling mote 
Of ocean-drifted sand appeared 
Like earth bestrewn with silver dew : 
And liquid peals of laughter trilled along 
Among the backward ripples of her hair ; 
No heed she paid to Alpheus' angry song 
For could not Kubla all her burdens bear? 



Coleridgx' s Unjinished Kubla Khan, 91 

But the pursuer gained, with haste fast 

breathing, 
A cloud of foam about his chariot seething, 
And loud arose his harsh, impetuous cries 
As in dehght, beholding his fair prize 
He urged his couriers with goad and rein 
In this mad chase which suddenly proved 

vain ; 
For all at once before his longing eyes 
Sank Arethuse, her lover and her train 
Down to a hidden cavern's dark disguise, 
And no one of the band arose again. 

But Arethuse knew well the place 
Where perfect safety seemed to be 
When this unwelcome, maddening race 
She chose no longer now to face ; 
From Alpheus now she's free. 

Here stems of crinoid flower arose 

As high as aloe-stalk that grows 

In earthly gardens, trees of wondrous hue 

Bore fruits transparent, glistening like gems. 

Distilling, in their ripeness, honey-devv^ 

That sparkled round their rinds like diadems. 



92 Coleridge^ s Unfinished Kubla Khan. 

But oh, the glories of the sands below them ! 
Where golden creatures, eyes of topaz 

gleaming 
Crept through the silvery moss of rock to 

show them 
Where paths are free and fair to those who 

know them. 
And sleeping undines in their beauty dream- 
ing 
Were wreathed about with harmless serpents 

coiling, 
Their backs of myriad hues, each other foiling 
In strife to cast their beauties o'er the bed 
Of water-maid around whose form were 

spread. 
On couch of green, a score of living stars, 
And urchins of the sea embossed the bed 
Or nestled 'mong the locks of radiant head : 
Like spadix of the lily of the Nile 
That hair in hue, that with the faint wave 

played. 
Bedecked with sea anemones that grew 
In secret spots that only sea nymphs knew 
'Mong beds of pearly shells their petals 

swayed. 



Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan. 93 

'Twas 'mid this paradise that Kubla saw 
A blest release from all the ills that gnaw. 

Oh, then the moments of pure pleasure 

Thrilling all his senses through ; 

When he heard, in choral measure 

Horns of sea shells echo through 

Those quaint sea caves in music low and 

sweet, 
Where time fled on and on with printless feet. 

But Alpheus' heralds yet again are heard : 

Alas ! dread fear had only been deferred ; 

The god had left his car behind 

That through the rocks his train might wind. 

Then Arethuse like ocean bird 

Disturbed from rock-bound nest, arose 

Through secret clefts her keen eye knew. 

And through a grot where ever flows 

A fount that joyous springs to view, 

Trinacria's darkling groves among ; 

And there in basin, prisoned long 

It babbles with a silver tongue 

In a retreat with ferns o'erhung. 

But foam-clad Alpheus now hath flung 



94 Coleridge^ s Unfinished Kubla Khan. 

The portals ope, with fury strong, 
Gives one glad cry, the nymph he claims, 
In briny arms her spirit tames — 
Then starting from his love-dream long 
In Xanadu woke Kubla Kahn 
Within his pleasure-dome to see 
Where sacred Alph still whispering ran, 
As half resolved to tell to man 
What only airy dreams set free. 



Charity. 95 



CHARITY. 

WE need the love of all mankind, 
Howe'er so poor and base. 
God knows we all are weak and blind, 

But love must find a place 
In human hearts that ever yearn 
For charity's sweet face. 

Then call not bitter feelings out 

By deed or voice or eye ; 
Judge not in harshness or in doubt 

When motives hidden lie ; 
Give generous credit for kind deeds, — 

We need it, you and I. 

For what we think of others near 

Will waken in each heart 
The good or bad that, sleeping here. 

Must rise to act its part ; 
For kindred thoughts to meet our own 

Unbidden oft will start. 



96 Trees, 



TREES. 

OH, thank God for the blessing of the 
trees ! 
With what a graceful dignity they stand 
Along the country roads o'er miles of land, 
'Mid slopes of waving grain and sunlit leas. 
Each spring they clothe themselves anew to 

please 
The fairy fancies, idle, happy band. 
That through the restless mind trip hand in 

hand 
And make this seem the Garden of the Hes- 

perides, 
When bloom the apple trees : list how the 

pines 
With myriad voices bring the murmuring sea 
To those far inland who can never hear 
The waters that past years have made so 

dear ; 
See how the autumn lights our maple trees ; 
How winter shows its wondrous leafless lines ! 



Renaissance. 97 



RENAISSANCE. 

ONE morn my soul awoke to song ; 
In doubt and sadness, oh I how long 
The joy of life had slept ! 
A thousand voices filled my quickened ear, 
And God himself had entered all things here. 
The trees, awake, were whispering his words ; 
The grass, the flowers, the insects and the 

birds 
Proclaimed his presence near. 
These voices rose to cheer 
The heart within me. 
And once again I saw 'twas good to live. 

I could not now rejoice, save thro' the sadness 

Which with long weary months had come to 
me. 

The sorrows of the past should bring us glad- 
ness, 

If from the depths the shining heights we see. 

We would not part with all the loss and strug- 
gles 



pS Renaissance 

Which time has cost us, could we only feel 
What blest, refining influence they bring us 
For our soul's heal. 

The death of friendships we have fondly 

cherished ; 
The hopes that now have vanished from our 

eyes ; 
Forms of the faithful, long since perished, — 
Before our memories rise. 
And hours that bring us tears we dearest 

prize. 



Patience, 99 



PATIENCE. 

IF we bear our pains and losses 
As the flower bears the rain 
Bending, closing, suffering meekly. 
Sure to rise and smile again ; 
Not one trial can be vain. 

For the trials like the rain 
Enter all the pores of being, 
Strengthen us beyond our seeing, 
Bring forth slumbering spirit power. 
Light the soul like freshened flower. 
Then our eyes shall shine again. 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

The Voyage 7 

American Girls on the Atlantic 16 

Margaret Canmore's Chapel 21 

Abbotsford 22 

Klstow 23 

The Tower of London 24 

A Flower from Mont Blanc 25 

The Lion of Lucerne 26 

In the Colosseum 27 

Galileo's Lamp at Pisa 29 

The Wolf of the Capitol 30 

Fra Angelico 31 

Michael Angelo's David 32 

Murillo's Madonnas 33 

Pompeii 34 

When the Sun Comes Over the Mountain • • • 35 

Bluets 37 

The Spider 38 

To the Author of America 41 

A Wayside Picture 42 

Look Within 43 

To the Bluebird • • 45 

To the Song Sparrow 46 

Fortune 47 

In Memoriam, W. H. 51 

In Memoriam, J. B. C. H. 52 

Among the Pines 53 



Index, 



PAGE 



Will o' the Wisp 55 

To the Preacher 5° 

The Old Songs '58 

The Bagpipe ^^ 

By the Wayside ^^ 

Hepaticas "^ 

Walt Whitman ^4 

To Shelley 65 

Found in Central Park ^^ 

My Little World ^8 

The Brook ^9 

Sick Neptune '70 

The Wreck of the Maine 72 

The Spanish War 74 

In Memoriam, (Hamilton Fish, Jr.) 75 

Unexpressed 77 

Chanticleer • 7^ 

Hidden Things 79 

Life 8^ 

To an Old Portrait Over My Fireplace .... 82 

Coleridge's Unfinished Kubla Khan 84 

Charity 95 

Trees ^6 

Renaissance 97 

Patience 99 



AUNT ELVIRA ABROAD 

BY 

WILLIAM BURT HARLOW 



Aunt Elvira lived on a farm with her good husband, 
Uncle Silas. She had the happiness of inheriting from 
her brother's estate one thousand dollars. With this 
magnificent fortune at command, she determined to 
see something of the world. She said to Silas : "We 
might as well gallivant round a little, while we are 
young, as ter set stived up here in the State of Connec- 
ticut all our born days." Accordingly they " gallivan- 
ted round." The description of the voyage across the 
ocean is intensely amusing, and a juicy humor trickles 
all through the book, which ought to melt the most 
miserable victim of hypochondria into geniality, if not 
into gayety. The author's object was not merely to 
amuse readers, but also to preserve some of the pecul- 
iar New England words, phrases and colloquialisms 
which are passing into oblivion. — New York Home jour- 
nal. 



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PRICE 50 CENTS. 



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The Story of America's Civil War 



The author of '' America" writes of it : 
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Mj; Dear Friend:— 1 thank you for the perusal of " Col- 
umbia Redeemed." I have read the successiion of 
books with much pleasure. 

Narrative poetry is a difficult task, but you seem to 
have managed it with great success. The themes are 
well chosen ; the descriptions vivid. Each is treated 
with sufficient expansion and, best of all, the patriotic 
spirit of the writer is everywhere enshrined. We can- 
not tell the story of our beloved country too often, nor 
in too many ways. It is worthy of the best prose ; the 
best poetry. A form which does not reach one mind 
may appeal successfully to another. You have accom- 
plished a great labor ; I am sure it has been a labor of 
love. I hope your little book will find favor with the 
public and attain the circulation it deserves. 
Cordially yours, 

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